


What Johnlock Is Not

by ForevertheOptimist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:11:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevertheOptimist/pseuds/ForevertheOptimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of increasingly heavy fluff semi-oneshots about what Johnlock isn't. Sort of. This is the first thing I've posted on this sight, so not entirely sure of the format yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Johnlock Is Not

*1: Not a Psychopath

“You'll keep these matters confidential, I trust?” Mycroft Holmes asked his brother, handing him a large, blank manila envelope. They were in Mycroft's private room in the Diogenes Club.

“Give us some credit, Mycroft,” John Watson said, fiddling with the covering on his armchair. “When have we ever met things slip?”

“It's not you I'm worried about,” Mycroft responded dryly, leaning on his umbrella. “Sherlock?”

“The standard arrangement,” Sherlock said briskly, taking the envelope, tucking it in his coat, and standing up from his chair. “I'll let you know once I've solved it.”

“I don't doubt it.” Mycroft inclined his head every so slightly. “John.”

“Mycroft.” John quickly stood up, and the two men shook hands.

“You can find your way out?”

Sherlock disdained to answer, replying only with a withering stare. “Come on, John.” Without looking back, he hurried out of the room. 

“Well, that'll be nice,” John commented as they walked side by side down the hall. “Government on your side for a change. Mycroft asking for your help.”

“Only because he doesn't want to get his hands dirty,” Sherlock muttered. “Git.”

“Did you see how much it killed him to ask?” John continued, grinning. 

“Begging. It's not his area,” Sherlock observed. “Also legwork.”

John snorted. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

“So, then. Airplane sabotage,” Sherlock said slowly, turning the words over in his mouth. “That's new. Not in my area of expertise.”

John glanced at him suspiciously, pulling on his jacket. “When you say ‘not your area,’ do you mean you don't know every detail about it or you don't know anything about it?”

“It's never come up.” Sherlock turned his coat collar up, determinedly not looking at his friend. “If l ever learned anything, I've deleted it.”

“You are so bizarre.” John couldn't help but shake his head, laughing. “Two hundred types of tobacco ash and you don't know what makes planes stay up.”

“Air, I imagine,” Sherlock said, pushing open the double doors. “And it’s 243 types.”

John shook his head. “Like I said.”

“In any case,” the detective continued, ignoring his companion, “we'd best head back to Baker Street. I want to get the witnesses in for questioning.”

“Wouldn't it be better to go to them?” John asked. “You know, natural habitat and all that, and - Oh, great.”

They'd stepped outside and found it pouring rain. John buttoned up his coat to the neck, preparing to step out in the downpour.

“I see Mycroft didn't send us a car this time,” he muttered, looking up and down the street.

“Git,” Sherlock repeated, almost amicably. “Oh well.”

John eyed his flatmate. “You're taking this calmly,” he remarked. 

“I've found, John,” Sherlock said, fishing in his coat, “that rain is only a minor problem if one is adequately prepared.”

“Well, yes, but we're not prepared, are we…” John's eyes widened as Sherlock produced a large, black umbrella from beneath his coat. “Where did you-”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said simply, twirling the umbrella once before popping it open. “I thought, since he knew it was raining and didn't bother to provide us a ride, he may as well help us stay dry.” He grinned. “Advantages of a long cost, wouldn't you say?”

John stared for a moment, then shook his head, laughing. “Can't you just see his face when he discovers it's gone?”

“Perfectly.” Sherlock raised the umbrella, then held out an arm to John. “Shall we brave the storm?”

“Might as well,” John replied, tucking his hand in Sherlock's elbow. Together, they set out into the street.

The umbrella was not a large one, meant for only one person, so the pair were forced to huddle together to avoid getting wet. John was, at first, rather uncomfortable.

“We really should call a cab, Sherlock,” he said, leaning slightly away. “Walking together in the rain? People will talk.”

“What people?” Sherlock asked sensibly, looking around at the deserted street. “The rain has chased them all inside.”

“All but us, anyway.” He laughed, surrendering and huddling closer, shying away from the pelting rain. “Be careful, Sherlock, or people might start to think you care.”

John felt Sherlock stiffen suddenly, his step faltering ever so slightly. 

“Hmm. That would be foolish of them.” But his voice lacked much of its usual confidence. 

Liar, John thought. He smiled to himself, zipping his jacket up tighter. As he and Sherlock hurried down the road, he found himself absurdly and inexplicably pleased at the sudden rainstorm that'd forced them together under a stolen umbrella in a street empty of onlookers. 

“How long do you think it'll be before Mycroft realizes it's gone?”

Sherlock checked his watch. “A few minutes, at most.”

“I'll bet you five pounds we can make it home.”

Sherlock glanced at him, then grinned. “Done.”

He'd hardly said the words before a sleek black car cruised around the corner, a man in dark sunglasses at the wheel. John stifled a laugh.

“Could he be any more James Bond?” 

“Don't provoke him,” Sherlock replied, walking a little faster, though John noticed he was still careful to keep them both shielded from the rain.

“What're we going to do, then?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder at the rapidly-approaching automobile.

“Run.”

“What?”

“Run!”

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and sprinted down the street, stepping in puddles left and right and getting thoroughly soaked. John, laughing breathlessly, couldn't help but think this sort of defeated the purpose of taking the umbrella in the first place.

“Are they going to follow us all the way to Baker Street, d’you think?” he asked as they tore around a corner.

“Not if I can help it.” Sherlock stuck the umbrella back in his coat and dragged John down a side alley. “No matter what happens, don't stop running.”

“Why, what're you going to do?”

“Just move!”

“Is this what you two were like as children?” Sherlock disdained to answer. John snorted. “God, you must have been terrors.”

“Mycroft usually started it. This way!” 

The two spilled out of the alley into the street and skidded to a stop. The long black car was turning the corner and had clearly followed them. John could see the driver of the car talking on the phone - probably calling for backup.

“Okay, Sherlock,” he muttered, “you got us into this ridiculous mess, so what's the plan?”

“You know what I say about plans, John.” Sherlock grinned down at him, and John couldn’t help but grin back, loving every second of the chase. 

“What do you say?”

“I haven’t got one. So we improvise.” 

The government car pulled over and a black-suited agent got out, speaking quickly into her walkie-talkie. With one last glance around, Sherlock flung the umbrella over a fence into some poor homeowner’s yard. Instantly, the agents converged on the house, losing all interest in John and Sherlock. 

“Okay, go!” Together, they ran once more, ducking between the cars and sprinting through the rain-soaked streets until the reached Baker Street. Sherlock threw the door open and the tumbled inside, collapsing on the stair in breathless laughter.

“I cannot believe we just did that,” John said, shaking his head with an incredulous grin. “I honestly can’t. Is this what you do when you don’t have cases?”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock admitted. “Here.” He'd pulled a slightly damp five pound note out of his pocket. Only now did John realize Sherlock was still holding his hand. He took the bill with his other hand, fighting against the blush creeping onto his face, but made no move to pull away. 

Until Mrs. Hudson came into the hall. “Oh, there you are, boys. Look at you!” she tittered. “Out of breath, soaking wet. What happened?”

Instantly John was on his feet, brushing off his coat. “Er, not much, just… It’s raining.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, looking faintly disappointed, though whether that was because he’d let go of his hand or at the weakness of his excuse, John couldn’t be sure. 

“Well, of course it’s raining, John, dear, couldn’t you get a cab? Oh, and you’re dripping on my carpet.” She shook her head, throwing up her hands. “Honestly. Sherlock, what do have to say about all of this?”

“It was all Mycroft’s fault.”

“Of course it was. You two really should try to make up-”

“Mrs. Hudson…” Sherlock said warningly, getting to his feet.

“But really, Sherlock, you’re family, after all, and if you two can’t stick together then-”

“Mrs. Hudson!” She subsided, glancing balefully up at him. “I’ve got all the family I need, thanks.” He glanced at John, his eyes so uncharacteristically soft that John couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. A moment later the detective was striding up the steps. “Tea, Mrs. Hudson, and make it hot. Come on, John. We’ve got a case!”

“Sorry about him,” John said to the housekeeper apologetically. “But if you could bring some tea, that’d be good.”

“John!”

“Coming!” He trotted up the steps, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. She looked at her sopping carpets for a moment, but then glanced up the stairs at John’s retreating back.

“Those boys,” she muttered, beaming in spite of herself, and went to fetch a towel.

*2: Not Your Housekeeper

Ding!

“John, get my phone,” Sherlock called, not looking up from his microscope. Frowning, he added another half microgram of magnesium to the mixture. If he could just get the crystals to separate-

The phone buzzed again. With an exclamation of frustration, Sherlock shoved the microphone away and reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile. 

Got one for you. Info attached. Interested? -Lestrade 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then opened the attached link. He grinned slightly as he read the document, then surged to his feet.

“John,” he called, striding into the living room, “we've got a case! Three seemingly unrelated victims, all females with different ages and races, and all murdered with coat hangers.” He stopped, realizing that the living room was empty. “John?”

“In here,” John called. Sherlock frowned - something about his voice sounded… off. He followed the sound to John's closed bedroom door.

“John, why are you still in bed when there's a triple homicide to - oh.” 

John was half-asleep. His nose was red, his eyes were bleary, and there was a pile of used tissues on his bedside table. “Good morning, Sherlock,” he croaked, managing a smile. “What was that about a case?”

Sherlock looked at his flatmate, then turned off his phone. “Never mind,” he said shortly. “It was fairly obvious.”

“What about the airplane one?”

Sherlock's silence told him all he needed to know. “What's wrong, John?”

John shrugged, letting it go. “Just got sick, I suppose. Headache, nausea, sinuses, the works. Probably just a cold from being out in the rain.” He grinned wryly. “I'm sure it'll be gone by tomorrow.”

“Right.” Sherlock glanced away, as if unsure where to look. “I suppose you won't want to go out, then.”

“No, I-" He paused to blow his nose explosively. “Sorry. I'll be staying in for a bit. You can still look at that case if you want. Coat hangers.” He smiled. “Sounds like a good one. I can still do the research bit, if you like.”

“Right. Yes.” 

Already John could see his friend's unhappiness building. “Sherlock-” he began, but Sherlock had already backed out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind him. With a sigh, John reached for a tissue, ready for a day of sulking.

Instead, however, he heard violin music, a bright and cheering air - the sort of thing Sherlock hardly ever played voluntarily. Smiling, John drifted off to sleep, hoping he'd feel better when he woke up.

John slept for several hours more. The flat stayed remarkably quiet, and he assumed, upon waking, that Sherlock must have gone out. What woke him up was, in fact, a phone call.

“Hello?” John said into the receiver, still groggy with sleep.

“John!” It was Lestrade. “Good to hear from you. Did I wake you up? You can't be still sleeping, it's nearly noon.”

“Yeah, I'm not feeling the best today,” John explained, stifling a yawn. “Been in all morning.”

“Maybe that explains it. Anyway, I called to ask about Sherlock. He's not sick too, is he?”

“Not that I've noticed,” John replied, well and truly awake now. “Why, what's happened?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade told him. “That's the thing. Sent him a triple homicide this morning. None of us could make heads or tails of it, of course. Exactly his sort of thing. I thought for sure he'd be interested, but he turned me down flat.Haven't heard from him all day.”

“Hmm. Well, I haven't seen him, but I haven't left the room.” However, John noticed now that the morning's newspaper lay nearly folded at the foot of the bed, as well as several large books. Picking them up, he shoved down a laugh: Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man, A Comprehensive Guide to the Migrations of the Humpback Whale, and Origami for Beginners. A selection he would never choose for himself, but he knew someone who would. “He's definitely been in.”

“Hmm. Never known him to turn down a case. He didn't even tell us how idiotic we were for not figuring it out ourselves.” John could almost hear Lestrade's shrug. “Ah well. I'd best get back to it. Get better, John. We're going to need him.”

“Doing my best,” John replied, and before he could ask why his health had anything to do with Sherlock on a case, he heard the click of Lestrade hanging up.

It was only then that he noticed the kitchen chair in the corner of his room, one that definitely had not been there that morning. On top of it lay yet another book, this one titled A Guide to Basic Home Health. 

Only moments later, there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” John called, and was pleased to see Sherlock poke his head through the crack.

“Good. You're awake. I thought you might be hungry,” he said, holding up a tray. “I brought soup.”

“You made soup?” John asked incredulously, eyeing the bowl warily. Sherlock looked away.

“Well,” he admitted, carrying it in and holding it up for John's inspection, “Mrs. Hudson made soup.” 

“Oh, thank God.” John eagerly attacked the bowl.

“But I watched,” Sherlock added. “So I can do it again if you need it.”

John paused, glancing up at his friend. “Sure you can spare the hard drive space?”

“It's relevant to my work,” Sherlock answered stiffly, not meeting his eyes. “I need my blogger, after all.”

John smiled into his bowl, appreciating the unsaid sentiment behind the words. It was things like this, he reflected, that made living with Sherlock Holmes bearable, even though so many couldn't believe it. You just have to speak his language.

“Lestrade called,” he said between bites. “Wanted to know why he hadn't heard from you. I admit I'm a bit curious myself,” he added, watching his friend carefully.

Sherlock shrugged. “I was busy,” he said lightly. “More important things to do.”

“More important than a triple homicide?” John shook his head, returning to his soup. “Must be something important.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, his gaze lingering on John. “It was.”

After a moment, Sherlock walked over to the bed, sitting carefully on the end. “I brought you things to read,” he said, running his fingers along the spine of the first book. “In case you got bored. I find it's one of the best ever written.”

“Not sure that'll help much, but thanks.” Not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings, he reached for the book. “I'll just, uh…” He opened the massive tome and glanced at the first page. “I think I'll go back to sleep. See if it's any better in the morning.”

“Good idea, John,” Sherlock said seriously. “Rest is among the better cures for mild illness.”

“Yeah, thanks. Army doctor,” he reminded him with a smile. Sherlock ducked his head.

“Of course.” He started towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. “I'll be outside if you need anything.”

“Right. Thank you,” John said sincerely. Sherlock paused, meeting his eyes at last, then smiled.

“Anything for you, John,” he replied with rare warmth, then ducked out the door.

As soon as he was certain his flatmate had fallen properly asleep, Sherlock crept back into the room. It was unusually quiet in the flat, and while Sherlock missed the excitement and adventure of their average day, he found the calm rather rejuvenating. Particularly in here, with John.

He hoped John would never know it, but he had spent most of the morning either in the corner chair or on the end of the bed, keeping watch over his friend. Now would be no exception.

Sherlock grabbed the chair and pulled it over to the side of the bed. With a gentleness he usually reserved only for his lab instruments, he pulled the heavy book away from John's sleeping grasp and set it on the bedside table. Then he picked up the now-empty soup bowl and set it back on its tray, adding to it the piles of used tissues accumulating around the bed.

In another situation, or perhaps a few years prior, Sherlock would have scoffed to see himself cleaning up after anyone, particularly someone who wasn't himself. But when John was the one who was laid up… how could he not?

“Keeping house,” he muttered. “The things I do for you, John.” But he said it with a smile. 

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock reached out and smoothed John's hair away from his sweaty forehead. Something in him liked being with John as he slept - it wasn't the same sort of thrill as deducing or solving a case, but it was a thrill nonetheless. A softer, milder thrill. Sherlock resolved then to experiment further with this newfound emotion. In all his studies of human behavior, in himself and others, he hadn't run across something like this. Or, perhaps, had deleted it, not truly believing it existed.

About to hurry into the kitchen to plan a study, something occurred to him. Sherlock turned back to the bed, staring at his sleeping flatmate for a moment. Then, holding his breath (for fear of waking John, he told himself), he bent down and lightly kissed John's forehead.

“Sleep well, John,” he whispered. Then, slightly afraid of what he had discovered, he hurried out of the room, ready to return to his microscope and lose himself in his studies.

 

*3: Not His Date

 

“Sherlock.”

The sound of violin music only increased in volume. John sighed, stepping a little farther into the room.

“Sherlock,” John said again, a little louder this time. Still no response. Sherlock kept his back to the door, violin bow soaring across the strings, resolutely ignoring his flatmate. 

“Sherlock, I know you can hear me, so-”

“No.” The music stopped abruptly, strings screeching, as Sherlock threw his violin into his armchair and turned to face John. 

John raised an eyebrow. “No, you can’t hear me?”

“No, I will not come to your work party.” Sherlock looked at John at last, running a hand through his hair. “I know perfectly well what your reasons will be, and the answer is no.”

“How did you know what I was going to ask?”

“The party starts at 8:00, it will take you over fifteen minutes to get there, you’ve left just enough time to get dressed for it, and , you think, to convince me to come.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Bit optimistic of you. You should have started hours ago, not that it will do you any good. I’m almost insulted. Not to mention,” he added, “you’ve taken your best suit in for dry cleaning, which you never do, not even for dates. Also, you never disturb me while I’m playing, unless you’ve got something you feel is important.” He rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “Given that we haven’t a case nor a client, this was my next guess.”

With a raise of his eyebrows, Sherlock folded himself into his armchair, picking up the violin and plucking it idly.

With a sigh, John strode into the room, sitting down in his chair and leaning forward. He pulled out an envelope and looked closely at Sherlock. 

“It’d be good for you to get out of the flat for a change,” he told him. “Change of scene.”

“I like this flat. Helps me think.”

“Until you get bored,” John muttered.

At that, Sherlock set aside his violin and opened a newspaper, holding it up to cover his face. Undaunted, John spoke up. 

“Sherlock, I’ve-”

“No.”

“Can I at least finish a sentence?” John asked exasperatedly. Silence from behind the newspaper. John rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. This conversation was going about as well as he’d hoped, but that didn’t mean it was going well. “Sherlock, I’ve got to bring someone, and-”

“You don’t have to bring someone,” the newspaper said. “No one’s forcing you.” Sherlock lowered the paper, his eyes suddenly bright with interest. “Unless there’s something I don’t know about? Which would be impressive, I might add.”

“Sherlock, you are such a prat sometimes,” John told him, without any real heat behind the words. “No, no one’s got a gun to my head or anything like that.”

“Pity.” The newspaper went up again. “That might actually have been interesting.”

“Look.” John opened the envelope, sliding out the invitation and holding it up. “‘Invitation to formal dinner for Dr. John Watson and friend’,” he read aloud. “See? Right there on the invitation.”

“No, it says ‘date’,” Sherlock told him, still hiding behind his paper. “‘Dr. John Watson and date’. You made it very clear the first day we met that you were not my date.” 

John started to speak, then stopped, looking sideways at Sherlock. “Are you reading my mail?”

“I have been for months,” answered Sherlock, not at all apologetically. “How else am I to know what you’re doing?”

“You could just deduce it.” John sighed. “I need to bring someone,” he said patiently. “I’d like to bring you. As a friend.” 

“Why must you bring someone along?” Sherlock asked, with significantly less patience. “As you said, no one’s got a gun to your head.”

“Yes, but-” John broke off, shifting in his chair. “If I show up alone, people are going to talk, Sherlock.”

“People do nothing but talk, it’s nauseating.” He tossed aside the paper and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “You do realize that people are going to talk just as much if you bring me as a date.”

John shook his head. “People know we’re flatmates, that’s all. You’re my best friend, Sherlock. It’s only natural.”

Sherlock sniffed, slumping back in his chair. “Ask Mrs. Hudson, then. You live with her too. I’m sure she’d be delighted to go.”

“Mrs. Hudson is going to be having dinner with Mrs. Turner next door that night. Apparently she’s helping plan a wedding for some of her tenants.” He coughed, uncomfortable. “She’s actually the one who suggested that I ask you.”

“What about your girlfriend, then? What’ve you got a girlfriend for, anyway?”

“I haven’t got a girlfriend,” John said, his voice carefully controlled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you have.” Sherlock looked up at John, his brows furrowed, plainly puzzled. “She was here just last night, wasn’t she?”

“No, Sherlock, she was here last week,” John told him, trying to hold in his irritation, “and then she left me after you asked if you could experiment on her fingers after she died from the blood clot in her hip.”

“Ah. Right.” Sherlock smiled slightly, remembering. “All the signs were there. And it was a very unusual birthmark. I thought she’d appreciate the chance to contribute to science.”

“Well, clearly you thought wrong,” John informed him with a grim smile. 

“It does happen occasionally,” Sherlock admitted, “particularly where your girlfriends are concerned. Though I hardly think I’m at fault.”

“You-” With an exasperated sigh, John sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Silence fell. At last, John said “Are you sure you won’t-”

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said suddenly.

John blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Molly Hooper,” he repeated. “She’ll probably be working, she’s always working. Get her out of the morgue for a change. Might do her some good.”

“Sherlock, Molly does do things other than help you out in the morgue,” John said, forcing down an eyeroll. “She has her own life, you know.”

“Without me in it? Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “Fine. Then get Gavin.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Gavin?”

“Yes, Gavin. Gavin Lestrade?”

“It’s Greg,” John told him wearily. “Honestly, Sherlock. I’m not taking Lestrade as my date to my work party.”

“Ah, so it is a date!” Sherlock pointed out triumphantly. John felt his cheeks heat up. “You won’t take Lestrade, but you’re asking me…” He considered his flatmate, his expression unreadable. “What might we deduce from that?”

“You tell me, Sherlock. You’re the detective.” Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, but said nothing, much to John’s intense relief. 

After a while, where Sherlock studiously ignored him, John said, “Sherlock, please. I’m asking you as your…” He saw Sherlock’s eyebrows go up just a fraction. “As your friend,” he finished, puzzled and faintly delighted when the eyebrows went back down. 

“No.”

John sighed and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He sensed defeat, but wasn’t ready to give in just yet. He glanced down at the invitation, hoping for anything that might help him. “There’s an free food. And an open bar,” he said, without much hope. “Until midnight.”

“You really think the promise of alcohol would tempt me?” Sherlock scoffed. “You should know I only rarely drink. It inhibits my thinking.”

“Says the drug addict,” John muttered. Unfortunately, Sherlock heard him.

“Alcohol and cocaine are two entirely different things,” he began, clearly settling in for a lecture. “Cocaine acts as a stimulant, heightening the senses, while alcohol, being a depressant, merely-”

“Alright, alright, I get the point.” John waved him off, shaking his head. “I did make it through medical school, you know.”

“So you keep saying.”

Exasperated, John got to his feet, tossing the envelope onto the end table. “Fine,” he said wearily. “Stay home, then.”

“Yes.”

John headed for the door. “I’m headed to the shop for some milk,” he called over his shoulder. “Then-”

“John.”

After taking a calming breath, John turned around to face his flatmate. “What, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had his head cocked slightly to one side, eyebrows furrowed in the face he often made when John had done something he couldn’t comprehend. “I’ve just said yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I’ll come.” He frowned. “I’d’ve thought you’d be more excited.”

John raised an eyebrow, hardly able to credit what he was hearing. “Really? You’ll come?”

“That’s what I’ve just said.”

“But… why?” 

“Because you asked me to,” Sherlock replied simply. “And I’ve got a few… experiments I’ve been meaning to try.”

John opened his mouth, then stopped. “You know what? I don’t want to know.” He started for the door again. “Party’s at eight.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” Even while shaking his head, John couldn’t stop a wide grin from spreading across his face. Little did he know that behind him, Sherlock was doing the same.

The bar was dark and crowded, the music was loud, and John Watson was well on his way to being drunk. He and Sherlock sat at a small table in the back corner, one nursing a drink, the other, a mobile phone. 

John peered across the table with something that might have been interest, were he completely sober. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his words slurring slightly. 

“Gathering data,” Sherlock replied, not looking up. “If I must be here, I’ll at least make sure the time doesn’t come to waste.” He reached over and picked up John’s glass, estimating how much liquid remained, then entered some numbers into his phone. 

“Data.” John shook his head, taking his glass back and draining it. “Always numbers with you, isn’t it, Sherlock? Learn to live a little, can’t you?” 

“Numbers describe life, John,” he told his flatmate evenly. “Many would say that’s the same thing.”

“Rubbish.”

“Yes, it is, a bit, isn’t it?”

The two sat in companionable silence for a moment. Sherlock busily typing away. John was still hardly able to believe this was happening: that Sherlock Holmes had agreed to go out on a- go out to a party and be with people. Be with him. It was nothing short of a miracle. 

“John, give me your hand.”

John blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Wha’d’you want that for? You’ve got two of your own.” He chuckled slightly at his own drunken wit.

Sherlock sighed. “Your pulse, John. I need to take your pulse.” He muttered something more that John didn’t catch, something about “alcohol” and “idiots.” John shrugged and laid his arm on the table, palm up. 

“Go on, then.”

Ever so gently, Sherlock laid two fingers on John’s wrist. He counted for a moment, longer than John thought necessary, then pulled his hand away almost reluctantly. 

Impulsively, John grabbed it, holding Sherlock’s hand closer. He couldn’t say why exactly, but something about it just felt… right. He blamed it on the alcohol. 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then at their joined hands. His face was impossible to read. “I need that back, John,” he said, his voice as empty as his face. John blushed slightly and let go hurriedly.

“Right, of course.” He grabbed his glass to take a drink and hide his face, only to remember it was empty. He put it down quickly, trying to be nonchalant. Sherlock, however, was busily entering his new data in his phone and didn’t see - at least, John hoped he hadn’t. 

“What sort of an experiment is this, anyway?” he asked, trying for conversation. Sherlock glanced up at him.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.” 

John sighed, rubbing his head. “I didn’t mean - that is, that wasn’t - of course I want to know, Sherlock. Don't I always?”

Sherlock merely looked at him. 

“Okay, fine. Not always.”

“Not that you admit, at least,” Sherlock corrected him. When John looked up in surprise, he was treated to one of Sherlock's rare grins.

“Alright, have it your way,” he answered good-naturedly, giving in. Sherlock sighed.

“If you must know, I'm studying the effects of human behavior on adrenaline levels. I've often in the past found adrenaline to heighten the senses and sharpen the mind, and anything to help those lot keep up is worth the effort.” He rolled his eyes ever so slightly. 

Drunk as he was, John could still pick up on the veiled insult, though he wouldn't notice until later that Sherlock had excluded him. “Nice. So how're you studying that at a party?”

This time Sherlock didn't take the trouble to conceal his eye roll. 

“The location is not ideal, it simply presented itself. Besides, I've found that the…” He hesitated. “The behavior in question is prevalent at parties. It would be foolish to ignore such an opportunity.”

John snorted. “That's one way to put it.” Silence from across the table. He sighed. “What's the human behavior?”

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. Sudden curiosity led John to press him. “Go on, show me. I'm interested, Sherlock, don't pass it up.”

With a sigh, Sherlock said simply, “If you insist.” Then, quickly but deliberately, he leaned forward across the table and kissed John on the mouth.

John stiffened at first, shock taking over, but that didn't last long. To his surprise, he found himself deepening the kiss, bringing a hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek and feeling Sherlock's come up to meet his. Good God, he thought, I didn't know what I'd been missing.

And then, suddenly and all too soon, Sherlock broke away. “Give me your hand,” he ordered. “I need your pulse, now.”

Breathless, John complied. Sherlock's hands were shaking as they measured his heartbeat, John was pleased to note. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him, busily taking his own pulse, then entering the numbers into his mobile.  
“Sherlock, you kissed me.”

“I know, John. I was there.” Still Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. “The adrenaline increase was somewhat larger than anticipated, though it did not seem to have the anticipated effects.” He hesitated. “In fact, I find the activity may have even muddled my thinking.”

“Sherlock, for God's sake!” John interrupted, pounding a fist on the table. “You can't just go around kissing people!”

“I didn't kiss people,” Sherlock said derisively. “I kissed you. That's entirely different.”

“But you-”

“You wanted to know what I was working on,” he told him impatiently. “I showed you. Still interested?”

John blushed. “Maybe. It's just-” He broke off, not sure of the right words. “How can you be so… so bloody scientific about this?”

Sherlock eyed him, his gaze level. “It was a scientific experiment,” he said coolly. “Nothing more.”

“I don't believe it,” John told him, shaking his head, “not for a second. And I don't think you believe it either.”

“John, don't find more here than there is,” Sherlock warned him, though John got the impression his flatmate may have been talking more to himself. “All personal relationships must be sacrificed for the sake of science.”

John snorted. “I'd believe that if I thought this was actually science.” Then, seeming to realize what he'd said, he cleared his throat, glancing at his watch. “We'd better be getting back, Sherlock. It's late.”

“You go,” Sherlock replied, attention back on his phone. “I've things to finish up first.”

“Suit yourself.” John got up, grabbing his jacket, privately glad that they wouldn't have to share a cab back to Baker Street. He started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, and Sherlock?”

Sherlock glanced up. 

“If you ever need to, er, repeat the experiment…”

With a smile, Sherlock nodded. “You'll be the first to know.” 

“Good.” Rather amazed at his own bravery, and still slightly in shock at the events of the night, John hurried out of the bar, feeling that on the whole, it had been one of the better work parties he'd ever attended.

 

*4: Not Dead

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous,” said John irritably. “There's no reason we should be out here.”

“I am a consulting detective,” Sherlock told him firmly, shifting to a more comfortable position behind the dumpster. “This is part of my work, you know that.”

“Yes,” John said with a sigh, “but really. We shouldn't be here.”

They were crouched in some dark London alley, and had been for several hours, waiting outside a bar's back door for a man who might never come. This man, their target, was an accomplished gunman, suspected of nearly a dozen drive-by shootings. What made this man interesting to the pair was the victims he chose: only the old, the sick, the weak - what many would call the bottom of humanity. He was also excellent at providing alibis (several of wench Sherlock had already disproven) and avoiding arrest. Sherlock had received a tip-off from a member of his homeless network that the man would be here on that night.

And so they waited. “We really ought to at least get police backup,” John argued. “I'm sure Lestrade would be delighted to help.”

“Delighted, just like you are?” Sherlock looked at John sideways, then shook his head. “That's not how I operate, John. I work alone.”

“Alone, but with me.” John was teasing now, but also curious to see how Sherlock would react. After the work party incident several weeks ago, things had largely returned to normal, though John could sense a faint undercurrent of tension. Both men had, through unspoken mutual agreement, said nothing of that night, neither to their friends nor to each other.

“You,” Sherlock said softly, startling John from his thoughts, “are the exception.”

John looked down, trying not to blush. It's those damn eyes, he thought, very aware of his friend's presence. Incredibly green and deep enough to down in.

He cleared his throat, settling into a more comfortable position. Beside him, Sherlock pulled out his mobile. Glancing over, John saw he had opened a page on airplane mechanics. The diagrams he saw were far more in-depth than he'd imagined diagrams could go.

“Sherlock, you solved that one weeks ago.”

Sherlock didn't look up. “The basic information is there, John, but there's still so much more. What been useful once may very well be useful again.” He held out the phone. “See, when the plane begins to take off, the engine-”

“I really don't want to know.” John cut him off, pushing the phone away. “You lose the magic that way.”

Sherlock stared. “The what?”

“You know…” John shifted, mildly uncomfortable. “I don't need to know every detail of what makes a plane fly. Just enough basics to trust that it does.” He shrugged. “The rest is sort of like magic, you know? You can rely on that. But once you figure it out, then you just know it. It's not magical anymore.” He fought down a blush. “Didn't mean to make a speech.”

“Magic.” Sherlock stared a moment more, then shook his head. “Ah, John, I always wondered if there was a romantic's heart buried there somewhere.” He went back to his diagrams, leaving John thoroughly red in the face.

A romantic's heart? And what does that make yours, Sherlock?

John looked over at Sherlock again, checking to be sure he was thoroughly engrossed, then pulled out his own phone. He shot off a quick text to Lestrade. 

Waiting for serial gunman outside bar. Bring backup? He added the address, then sent it, hoping Sherlock hadn't seen. Then, as an afterthought: Keep it small. Sherlock doesn't know.

Only moments later, he got a text back. He opened it, intensely glad his mobile was silenced. On my way, it read.

It's for your own good, Sherlock, he thought, putting the phone away, no matter what you think.

Suddenly, a door at the end of the alley slammed open, spilling light into the dark street. Noise from the crowded bar flowed out before the man shut it again. In the sudden darkness, the flare of a lighter was almost painful, followed by the dull glow of a cigarette. John could even see the telltale bulge in the side of his jacket, proof that the man was armed.

“That's our man,” Sherlock whispered, quickly stowing his mobile. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Yes.” Leaning sideways, John worked the handgun out of the waistband of his jeans. He held it up to show Sherlock, being sure to stay out of sight. “Here.”

“Perfect.” Before John could protest, Sherlock seized the gun and vaulted over the dumpster, landing in the alley with remarkable grace and aiming the gun at the man. “Stay where you are!”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John hissed, scrambling after him. “Really?”

The other man said nothing, merely pulling out his own gun and aiming it right back at Sherlock. John felt his breath catch in his chest - the man's hand was steady, and he was certain his aim would be good. 

“I don't care how you've been doing it,” Sherlock called. “I just want to know why. The weak, the ill, the elderly… Are you some kind of purist?”

“Put the gun down,” the man as a response. “Say nothing. You're going to let me go and forget you ever saw me.” His tone brooked no argument.

But Sherlock was never one to heed a warning. “Or what?” he scoffed. “You'll shoot me? Somehow I doubt it.”

“You're right,” the man said coolly, “I won't.” Slowly, his gaze shifted to John, the barrel of the gun following. “But I would shoot him.”

Instantly, Sherlock's entire demeanour changed. He held up his hands, gun pointing towards the sky. John, surprised, terrified, and a touch flattered, followed suit.

“Look, let's not cause a fuss,” he said reasonably. “Just come quietly, we'll-”

A shot rang out in the alley, striking the pavement in front of them and sending up sparks. Sherlock staggered back, wincing. John flinched.

“No more warning shots,” the man called, though his voice shook slightly. “Put the gun down and back away.”

“Just stay calm,” Sherlock countered, carefully laying the gun on the ground. “No one's going to do anything.”

“Police! Stay where you are!”

Lestrade burst into the alley, gun at the ready, another officer behind him. “Nobody move!”

“We didn't call them,” Sherlock said instantly, all his attention on the gunman. “We didn't-” He suddenly stopped, glancing suspiciously at John. The answer to his unspoken question was written on John's face.

“Put down the guns!” Lestrade called, motioning with his pistol. “Hands in the air!”

Blam!

Another shot cracked through the alley, but this one didn't hit the pavement. This one struck John squarely in the chest.

Time seemed to slow down. John looked down at the hole in his shirt, in his side, at the spreading red stain. He wondered briefly if he'd ever be able to get it clean, then recognized in the next instant that he was going into shock.

He stumbled back until he hit the alley wall, feeling his jacket ride up as he slid to the ground. He closed his eyes as the first wave of pain hit. Dimly John heard Lestrade shouting, then the running feet of the officers taking off after the fleeing gunman. Then Sherlock was at his side.

“John.” John forced his eyes open and his best friend's face swam into focus. “John, can you hear me?”

For some reason, Sherlock's face was not its normal blank canvas. It was open, vulnerable. Panicked. This was new. John squinted through the pain, trying to see more clearly.

“Sherlock?”

“I'm here, John, I'm here-” Sherlock's voice broke, and he busied himself supporting John's head. 

“Sherlock, it hurts.” John clenched his teeth, closing his eyes again - it was easier that way, both to bear the pain from the gunshot and from Sherlock's terror.

“I know, John. I'm so… so sorry.” His hands were fluttering about, wanting desperately to help but not sure how. This wasn't covered in his Guide to Basic Home Health. “I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear-”

“You think I don't know that?” John laughed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please tell me there's an ambulance coming.”

“I, er, didn't think of it.” Immediately Sherlock grabbed for his mobile, nearly dropping it in his haste. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” He watched through half-lidded eyes as his friend dialed.

“Hello, yes, emergency. My friend's been shot. We need help.” He rattled off the address, then hung up before the person on the line could ask anything more.

“Now put pressure on it,” John instructed him, grunting out the words. He could feel the blood loss starting to set in. Sherlock hurried to do as he asked, crossing his bare hands over the hole in John’s chest and pushing down. His gaze riveted on the red gushing out between his fingers. 

“Okay. Okay. Pressure. Now what?”

“What's wrong with you, Sherlock?” John asked. Even through the haze of pain, he could see that this was far from normal behaviour. “Surely there’s something in that mind palace of yours for this?”

“I can’t - It’s like it’s locked,” Sherlock answered, shaking his head in frustration. John winced at the stab in his chest, and instantly Sherlock froze. “It's locked and the key is broken, I can’t get in…” 

“What?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, it’s never happened before…” Sherlock’s cheeks were shining. It looked like tears, but this was so out of character John was sure he was hallucinating. 

“Sherlock, you’ve got to keep it together,” he said, trying to be firm. “You’ve got to stay with me. At least ‘til someone comes.”

Sherlock let out what might have been a laugh, or possibly a sob. “You stay with me, John. I couldn’t… If you…”

“Just-” He took a ragged breath, fighting for consciousness. “Just stay focused. You can do it, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, John.” Sherlock met his eyes at last. Through John’s pain-fractured vision, Sherlock’s blue-green eyes seemed to swell to fill his entire view, until he could see nothing else. “Have I ever told you how absurdly brave you are?” Sherlock’s voice was low, heavy with emotion, but a bit more controlled. “I wish I was more like you.”

“Yeah… Yeah… Brave Sherlock…” John’s eyes slid closed, and his head slumped back against the brick wall behind him. 

“John?” Sherlock shook him slightly, then harder, heedless of the blood staining his hands. “John? John, you’ve got to wake up, they’ll be here any minute, John, just stay with me, John…JOHN!”

When John didn’t respond, the great Sherlock Holmes, famous for a brilliant mind and an icy heart, broke down completely. The paramedics who arrived mere moments later would find him with his head on John’s chest, hair matted with blood and face streaked with tears, whispering one name over and over again. For a moment, they would wonder which of these two men was the one they were there for. 

“It’s him, John Watson, here, hurry!” The young medic jumped as the man he’d taken for dead sat up and barked orders at him, but he hurried to extract the unconscious man beneath and get him on a stretcher. 

“Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked as two of his colleagues hurried off, carrying John between them. 

“Yes- Yes, that’s me.” Sherlock struggled to his feet, starting after the stretcher, but the medic held him back.

“Mr. Holmes, are you injured?”

The answer that sprang to his mind immediately was Yes. Yes, my heart’s been shot and you’re taking it away in your truck. But he merely shook his head. “Where’re you taking him?”

“Mr. Holmes-”

“Where?”

“St. Bart’s,” the medic answered, galvanized by Sherlock’s harsh tone. “Are you family?”

“No.” Yes. “I’m his… friend.” 

“I see.” The young man got to his feet, starting towards the ambulance. “Well, Mr. Holmes, if you come to the hospital, we’ll soon have him in intensive care.” Already Sherlock could see the medics in the back of the van trying to start John’s heart. “Are you certain you’re okay?”

No. Not in the slightest. Sherlock nodded, and watched, uncharacteristically helpless, as the young man hopped in the driver’s seat and the ambulance drove away, leaving a shell of a man behind it.

 

*5: Not My Division

Anyone in the St. Bart's waiting room that evening would have seen a most curious sight: a tall man in a long, bloody trench coat tucked up in a tiny plastic chair. He'd been sitting there, perfectly still, longer than anyone else in the room, and no one knew exactly when he'd come in. Even the desk nurse didn't know who he was, or what he was there for. 

At last, a message came in for the nurse. “John Watson can receive visitors,” she announced, glancing curiously at the mysterious stranger. “Anyone waiting for a John Watson?”

Almost instantly, the man was on his feet. “Yes, I'm here.”

“You'll need to sign in, sir,” she told him warily, now noticing the blood in his hair, too. He took the clipboard she handed him and scrawled something illegible. The nurse didn't comment. “He's on the third floor, room 327,” she said instead. “I can have someone show you up…?”

“No need,” the man said shortly. “I know my way.” He brushed past her and towards the double doors, striding with renewed purpose. The nurse could restrain her curiosity no longer. 

“Who are you?” she called, leaning over her counter. 

“The name is-” He stopped, then seemed to change his mind. “No one important,” he said instead. “Just a...friend.” He glanced down, then pushed open the doors, hurrying off into the depths of the hospital.

It took only a matter of minutes for Sherlock to find the room, but once he was standing outside the door, he found himself hesitating. Imagining John, pale and weak and nothing like his John… He wasn't certain he could face it.

He's seen you in worse shape, he told himself sternly, and he still clings to you like life itself. And he is so much easier to cling to than I will ever be. He winced at the unfortunate metaphor. If John was okay to have visitors, he must still be clinging to life… but for how much longer?

His half-panicked wonderings were interrupted as the door swung open and a white-coated doctor strode out, clipboard in hand. 

“I'll need clearance for x-rays,” she called to a nurse behind her, who nodded and hurried off. “Can someone-” She stopped, noticing Sherlock for the first time. Taking in his bloody appearance and pale face with a knowing and practiced eye, she handed off her clipboard, then stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Dr. Swales. You must be Sherlock?”

“Er, yes.” Sherlock hadn't really been paying attention to this brisk woman. He'd been too busy peering through the door, trying to catch a glimpse of John. “How did you-”

Dr. Swales's expression softened into a smile as she looked at the distraught man before her. “He's been asking about you,” she told him. “When he's conscious, anyway. He's out now. Heavily sedated, of course. He's made it through the surgery to remove the bullet, but-”

“Will he be okay?”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “The next few hours will tell. Once he wakes up we’ll be able to do some tests. He could be fine, probably a bit weaker than before, but nothing therapy won’t fix.” She hesitated before adding, “Or he could be dead. We’ll do everything we can, of course,” she added hurriedly, “but I’m afraid right now that’s the more likely outcome.”

Dead. The word resounded through Sherlock’s brain, echoing in the halls of his mind palace and drowning out any other thought. Blindly he pushed past the doctor, bursting into the plain hospital room.

It took him a moment to find his friend in the tangle of wires and tubes. John was horribly pale, his eyes shut and sunken into his face. 

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” a nurse spoke up from where he was adjusting one of the machines - a morphine drip, Sherlock later realized. “Looks bad, don’t it? But he’ll make it. I’ve seen-”

“Stop,” Sherlock said tightly. “Just… just leave. Please,” he added belatedly. The nurse smiled and nodded.

“Course. Take your time. As long as you're quiet, there's no harm in it. I’ll be back in about half an hour to check up on him.” He set the clipboard down on the foot of the bed. “There’s a copy of his charts there if you want to read them.” He headed for the door. “Hope for a miracle. That’s all you can do for now.”

Sherlock hardly noticed when the nurse left. He glanced over at the clipboard, then shoved it off the bed. It fell to the floor with a clang and a clatter. Heedless of the noise, he pulled one of the hard plastic chairs up to the side of the bed and sat down gingerly, careful not to disturb anything. Gently, oh so gently, he laid his hand on John’s and was relieved beyond measure to feel a pulse fluttering in his friend’s wrist. 

“John,” he murmured, shaking his matted curls, “I am… so sorry. None of this should have happened, and it’s my fault. You were right, it was ridiculous. I was proud and arrogant and I wanted to impress you.” He chuckled softly, deep in his throat. “So much for that. But-” His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “But I want you to know, John, that if you… if something happens, something permanent, I will never forgive myself.”

With a sigh, Sherlock lifted John’s fragile hand and kissed it softly, hesitantly, then pressed it to his forehead. “I love you, John Watson,” he whispered. “And I swear, make it through this, and I’ll tell you face to face.” He dropped to a whisper, hating himself for the drama. “I promise. Just stop this, just for me, just stop it.”

He sat at the bedside for what felt like millennia, frozen in place, trying to process the whole situation. But in all the wings of his mind palace, try though he might, there just wasn’t a room big enough to put the idea of John gone forever.

Suddenly, there came a knock on the door. Receiving no answer, it slid open and Detective Inspector Lestrade strode in.

“Sherlock? I came as soon as I could get out of work… God. He’s in rough shape, isn’t he?”

No response, not even a twitch. For a moment, Lestrade, taking in the state of Sherlock’s hair and coat and his vacant stare, wondered whether they had the right man hooked up to all the machines. 

“We caught the guy, by the way. Chased him through three bars and a construction site, but got him in the end.”

Still nothing. Stepping further into the room, Lestrade shrugged off his coat and laid it across the end of the bed. Noticing the clipboard still sprawled on the floor, he picked it up and glanced through it. 

“It says the bullet hit a rib, pushed it back. Blood loss, possible spinal nerve damage-”

“Shut up.” 

Lestrade glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, don’t you want to know what’s wrong with him? I mean-”

“Nothing’s wrong with him.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade stared at his friend for a moment, curled up in a tiny hospital chair. “Sherlock, he’s been shot.” 

“Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know.”

“Why the hell not?” Lestrade asked in exasperation, tossing aside the clipboard.

“He said - John said, before… all of this - that knowing takes away the magic.” His words came slowly, haltingly. “He said you could rely on magic, but once you knew everything, it wasn’t magical anymore.” He looked up at Lestrade, eyes red. “They said to hope for a miracle.”

“And how is you sitting by his side, starving yourself and bring God knows what germs into his room going to help with that?”

“I don’t want him to-” Sherlock stopped, unable to finish his sentence. “I just don’t want anything to happen to him and have him be alone.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise at this sudden change in character, then sighed, understanding. “Sherlock, look,” he said, stepping forward and laying a hand on the distraught man’s shoulder, “it’s hard on all of us, I know. John’s my friend too. But you’ve been here for hours. Mrs. Hudson called and said she came by and you didn’t move once. You need to get cleaned up, you need to eat. It’s a miracle they let you in at all, looking like that.” Watching him for a moment, the inspector added, “You know how upset he’d be if he woke up and found you in a state like this.” 

It was clearly only this last thing that tipped the scales. Sherlock nodded limply, eyes fixed on his unconscious friend. Keeping up a steady stream of chatter, the police inspector lifted the unresisting, unresponsive detective to his feet by one arm and led him out of the room. Once out of the hospital, he hailed a taxi to take them both back to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door at the first knock. “Oh, there you are, Sherlock, I’ve been so worried! Come in, Inspector.” She stood back, leaving Lestrade plenty of room to lead her tenant inside. “Just bring him upstairs. I’ll be up with some tea in a minute.” She bustled off towards her own flat, then turned back. “How is John, is there any news?”

“Not so far,” Lestrade said, lowering his voice with an anxious glance at Sherlock, who was plodding up the stairs to his room. “They still don’t know how he’s going to turn out, but anything’s possible at this point.” When he looked towards the stairs again, Sherlock was gone. 

Mrs. Hudson saw it too. “Now tell me, how is he really?”

“John or Sherlock?” It was meant as a joke, but neither found it very funny. 

Lestrade sighed. “It's not looking good,” he confessed. “Spinal damage is ugly, and major surgery can't be helping. It'll be touch and go for a while.”

A crash sounded from somewhere above them. Mrs. Hudson winced.

“Oh dear, that sounded like the coffee table,” she said, wringing her hands. “I was just moving some things to dust-”

“I’ll go after him,” Lestrade told the landlady. “Couldn’t bring some food, too, could you?”

“Of course, dear. Just a moment.” She disappeared into the flat. Lestrade hurried up the stairs, relieved to find the flat unlocked. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but minutes later he heard water running from the bathroom. He righted the coffee table, picking up a few scattered books, then sank into an armchair, prepared to wait.

He was just checking in on his team - they were out on a major drugs bust - when Sherlock reemerged, thankfully clean. He started for the door, but Lestrade was on his feet immediately, blocking the way. He pointed to the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up. “Eat,” he said firmly. 

“I'm going to the hospital-”

“Not ‘til you've eaten. I'm not having you collapsing on me. One person laid up is enough.” Lestrade eyed him critically. “I will get police backup if I have to, Sherlock. Be reasonable.”

Sherlock glared at him for a moment, then threw himself down at the table, stuffing the food in his mouth at top speed. Lestrade, watching, worried he might choke, but Sherlock threw back a cup of tea, then surged to his feet, grabbing his scarf from the rack and disappearing out the door. Lestrade let him go, and saw him get into a cab only moments later. Shaking his head, he reached for the tray, only to discover Sherlock had hardly eaten a thing.

“Tricky bastard,” he muttered, nudging the remains with a fork. “He just tore it up and moved it around. Stubborn as hell, he is.”

“Sherlock, you mean?” Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. “His heart's in the right place, but he's just got his ways. You know how he is.”

Lestrade snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“I heard him go out,” she added, bustling in to collect the tray. “Back to St. Bart's?”

“I expect so. Can't imagine he'd have gone anywhere else.” Lestrade shook his head. “He's never like this. Ever. Usually he just finishes off the case and that's it, but he didn't care at all about whether we got the guy or not. This whole…” He stopped, looking for the right word. “The waiting around, the caring, it's not his area at all.”

“Well, this is John, dear. He's a special case, after all. I expect if he makes it through they'll make it final at last.”

“Er, sorry, make what final?” Lestrade looked at the elderly landlady suspiciously. She smiled knowingly.

“Oh, nothing, I'm sure.” She bustled out with the tray, humming to herself and leaving the inspector to wonder just exactly what she was referring to.

 

*6: Not Actually Gay

When Sherlock reached the hospital room once again he found it bustling with doctors and nurses, all hovering around the bed. Dr. Swales saw him and met him at the door.

“Mr. Holmes, was it? He woke up just a few minutes ago, and we couldn’t get a bit of sense out of him at first. Probably better you weren’t here.”

Sherlock stiffened slightly - he would have much preferred to have been the first face John saw when he’d come to, even if he didn’t remember it later. 

“We’ve done preliminary tests, and he’s definitely going to survive. He’s made it through, Sherlock.”

Tension flowed out of the detective, and he let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Then he stopped, eyeing her suspiciously. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

To her credit, the doctor didn’t try to deny it. “I’ll let him tell you himself.” She stepped aside to admit him to the room. 

John saw him almost instantly, despite the crowd. His smile was better than any drug. “Sherlock.”

“John.” 

The patient began to say something more, but then turned to one of the nurses. “Could you just… leave us alone for a bit?”

“We do still need to go over the test results-”

“I know. Just-” John forced a smile. “Later, okay?”

The nurses traded glances, then nodded, collecting their clipboards and filing out. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Sherlock eased himself into the same plastic chair at his best friend’s side. “You’re awake.”

“I know.” John started to laugh, but stopped almost immediately - it clearly hurt. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say that.” Though he didn’t know it, the detective looked almost exactly as John had when his rib pained him. “I wouldn’t let you go.”

John shifted in the bed, trying to get more comfortable. Instantly Sherlock was there, adjusting the pillows to support him. “Thanks.”

“Only returning the favor. Instant support,” he added at John’s puzzled glance. John looked down, smiling into his lap.

“Course.” They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock drinking in the sight of John, his John Watson, alive and well. “I suppose they told you everything. Medical, I mean.”

“No, actually.”

John blinked in surprise. “No?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look away. “No. I, uh, wouldn’t let them,” he admitted. 

“What, not anything?” Sherlock shook his head. “God, Sherlock, why not?”

“Well, it’s like you said.” Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to explain. “Back when we were - Back before all of this,” he said awkwardly, “you talked about magic. How when you learn everything about something you lose the magic and you can’t rely on it.”

“You said I had a romantic’s heart,” John reflected, smiling slightly. Then he realized. “That’s why? You were relying on magic?”

Sherlock couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “They said to hope for a miracle.”

“One more miracle.” Closing his eyes, John forced his thoughts back to the worst days of his life, standing in front of the grave of the best man he’d ever met. 

“And I got it,” Sherlock said, finally looking at him. “You’re here.” 

“Well…” John hesitated, grimacing. “Not quite.”

“What do you mean?” This must be what Dr. Swales had alluded to. Whatever it was, it was bad - or, at least, John thought it was. Sherlock could read it clearly on his face.

“Well… See, Sherlock, the bullet hit my ribs, and pushed them around,” John said carefully. “Spinal damage is… messy, and-”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and warm.

“It’s this.” With a tug, John pulled the blankets away from his legs, clad in hospital pajamas. Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind. “They’re paralyzed, Sherlock,” he said, voice thick and breaking. “Waist down. I can’t move them.”

And with that, the army doctor finally broke. His shoulders shook, and even though he was trying not to move, Sherlock could see he was sobbing. For a moment, the detective was at a loss - people called him a machine, but John had always been strong, had never really needed his support. Now he did, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do.

Carefully, working his way around the tubes and machines, Sherlock crawled into the large hospital bed and wrapped his arms around his friend. 

“John, they told me you were dying,” he murmured, voice hardly louder than a whisper. John quieted, listening closely with an occasional hiccoughing sob. “That your chances were slim to none and I should say goodbye. But I couldn't.”

He pulled back slightly, resting one long hand on the side of John's face. John stiffened, then relaxed, leaning into him. 

“I let you believe I was dead for two years,” Sherlock said levelly, holding nothing back. “Somehow you survived and are still incredible and wonderful.” His breath caught in his throat at the truth of it. “But I'm not that strong.”

“Sherlock-” John reached for him, cautiously pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, but Sherlock wasn’t finished. 

“I believed you were going to die for two minutes, and they were the worst two minutes of my life.”

“Two minutes?” John chuckled weakly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s incredible green-blue ones, wishing he would look back at him. “Sherlock, I was unconscious for at least a few hours, and that's after the surgery.” He touched his side gingerly with one hand, the other still on Sherlock's face. “Where d'you get two minutes?”

Sherlock met his eyes briefly, then looked away, to John's disappointment. “Two minutes was as long as I believed it.”

“Sherlock, I don't-”

“Dead, John.” Sherlock shook his head, curls tumbling. “The world without John Watson? Impossible. You're the thing that keeps me alive.”

“Good thing I'm still around then, yeah?” John smiled, eyes scouring Sherlock's face. “You'll have to come around now and then.”

“What?” Sherlock pulled back, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

John looked at him for a moment, smile still lingering, not sure if he was serious. “Well, I can't run around London solving crimes like this, can I?” he said at last, patting his immobile legs. “What're you going to do, haul me around in a wheelchair?”

“If I have to,” Sherlock said seriously. 

With an almost scornful laugh, John shook his head. “Right. You can’t be Sherlock Holmes like that. No running around, no flapping coat-”

“I can’t be Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. Impossible.”

John’s hands were shaking - not the tremor he’d once had, but well and truly trembling. He was somewhat relieved to see Sherlock’s were too. 

“John, you were going to die, but now you're alive. Better to have lost part of you than all of you.” His voice broke, just the smallest bit. “I'd take any part of you.”

“I suppose you want my brain the most?” John suggested, half-joking. “That's the important bit, isn't it? Lucky that made it through alright-”

He broke off as Sherlock finally, finally looked at him, his expression more open, more vulnerable, more warm than John had ever seen it.

“Given the choice, John, I'd much rather have your heart.”

“God.”

John shook his head, glancing down, and in that moment, Sherlock felt ever doubt and fear he’d ever had rise up together, threatening to choke him. He’d gone too far, read things wrong. Idiot - who are you to try to understand human nature? Of course he doesn’t- Of course not. Caring is not an advantage. It just destroys you.

“God, Sherlock.” John looked up at him, and, despite everything, Sherlock’s heart lept into his throat. “It’s always been yours.” 

Sherlock froze, staring at the man he loved. “What?”

“All those things you said, when I was- when you thought I was dying…” John smiled, taking the detective’s hand in his own. “I heard you.” 

“I love you, John.” The words were said simply, but the emotion in Sherlock's stunning eyes was anything but.

“Oh, careful, Sherlock,” John cautioned, grinning slightly, his heart beating fast. “Big words to throw around.”

“I know.” He let out a ragged breath. “God, John, I know.”

“Good. Because I love you too.”

And then, at long last, John kissed him.

It wasn’t, Sherlock would later reflect, the magical experience that songs and movies built it up to be. No fireworks, no sparks, but he felt his mind palace, formerly so full of worry, panic, and hope, empty out completely, to be filled with subtle waves of contentment. Of rightness. Never in his life had anything felt better. Dimly, he recognized that his past experiment had been a complete failure - kissing John was nothing compared to being kissed by John.

John winced, pulling away briefly at a pain in his ribs, but only momentarily. He ignored it. With so much else coursing through his mind, pain had no place. Shock, love, and thrill, yes, but mostly the simple thought: Finally.

Suddenly they heard a beeping. They pulled apart with a start, staring around for the sound of the noise. John cursed quietly - it was the heart monitor. His heart rate had gotten higher than was healthy for a patient recovering from surgery.

Reluctantly Sherlock detangled himself from John, careful not to disturb any of the wires, and managed to be sitting in the plastic chair by the time a nurse appeared.

“What’s going on in here?” she demanded, silencing the monitor and turning an accusing eye on the two men. “Well over 100 beats per minute, and you can’t have left your bed.”

John winced. “Sherlock was just, er…” He was blushing slightly, though he fought to keep it down.

“Out,” she told Sherlock firmly. “We’ve test results to go over, and if his heart rate gets too high he’ll break his stitches. Out.” She pointed to the door, then softened as Sherlock got to his feet with a last look back at John. “You can tell him goodbye, at least,” she told him, relenting. 

Sherlock nodded, smiling sweetly at John. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised. “And-” Words hung in the air, but somehow, none of them really needed to be said. “And thank you.”

“My pleasure,” John replied politely, but his eyes spoke volumes. “Come back soon.” 

Visiting hours ended at 8:00pm, and still Sherlock didn’t come. John was restless, unable to sleep flat on his back, but incapable of moving himself. He was on the point of pouring in the morphine just to get away when the door creaked open. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and was not disappointed. “How the hell did you get in here, they closed hours ago!”

“I never left,” Sherlock admitted softly. “I hid in a closet.”

“Of course you did,” John said, amused. “And no one found you?”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock grinned, shrugging off his trench coat and laying it over the chair. “People in a hurry rarely look closely.” 

As quietly as possible, Sherlock began to climb back into the bed, resuming his earlier position. John started to protest, but quickly thought better of it. Sherlock caught it, however, and held back.

“What’s the matter? I can go if you’d rather-”

“No, don’t. It’s just…” He glanced down at his immobile legs. “I’m not sure I’ll be such a good companion.”

“Nonsense. Are you comfortable?”

“Not exactly,” John admitted. Gently, Sherlock helped him shift them until he was lying on his side. “I’m not going to stay like this, you know,” John pointed out. 

“That’s why I’m here.” Moving aside the tubes and wires, Sherlock got back onto the bed, fitting himself in behind John, supporting him. One arm gently rested on his shoulder. “Goodnight, John.”

John smiled, certain that somehow, now he’d sleep just fine. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

7: Not A Couple

 

“I knew it!” Lestrade rubbed his hands together, beaming. “Heard the rumors for days, of course, but I never got in early enough to see for myself.”

John sat up, wiping sleep from his eyes, and detangled himself from Sherlock. “Rumors?”

“That you were, you know…” The inspector gestured towards them. “Together.”

“Yeah, well, they tried to kick him out, but after the first few days, they sort of gave up,” John explained with a yawn. 

“Than how do you explain the money you won betting against the rest of the Yard on it? How much was it again?” Sherlock hadn't sat up yet, and still had his eyes closed.

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. “A few hundred pounds, I think.”

“Good for you,” John remarked, meaning it. He poked Sherlock until he groaned and got out of the bed. “Wake up, dear. The kids want our full attention.”

“I hardly think they require that,” Sherlock muttered, but he grabbed his coat and threw it on over his pajamas. “Why are you here anyway?”

“Good news,” Lestrade told them with a grin. “John, you're being discharged.”

“What, really?” John's grin was equal parts shock and delight.

“Yeah, just got the news. You’d have heard it yourself if you hadn’t slept in so late.” 

“It's the morphine,” John explained. “Makes you drowsy.” 

“Yeah? And what about him?” Lestrade asked, grinning and gesturing to Sherlock.

“Making up for lost time.” Sherlock glanced at John, then stomped into the bathroom. 

“Just like that?” John asked, watching Sherlock go out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well, you’ve got to do some physical therapy stuff, and they want regular check-ins,” admitted Lestrade, “but you can go back to Baker Street, at least.” 

“That’s great, really. I won’t miss this place, or these things.” He tapped the machines ranged around his bed. There were less, it was true, but still more than he wanted. 

“Can’t blame you.” Lestrade grinned. “As soon as you’re ready, we can go.” He pointed to a nurse who stood in the door, pushing a wheelchair. At the sight of it, John’s face fell. Sherlock came out of the bathroom, hair wet, just in time to see it.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just… I’d forgotten for a second,” he confessed. “Baker Street. Our flat… I won’t be able to get up the stairs.”

Sherlock’s heart broke - how could he have forgotten? He’d been so eager to have everything perfect, and yet that hadn’t once occurred to him. But to his surprise, Lestrade smiled. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he promised. “I’ve got it taken care of. Well, with a bit of help,” he admitted.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mycroft?”

“Maybe.” Lestrade shrugged, but his grin was all the answer either man needed. “Shall we go, then?”

John shrugged, excited but a bit apprehensive. “Might as well.”

It took both men and the nurse to get John into the wheelchair, but all were confident that with practice, Sherlock and John would be able to manage it alone. When they came out of the hospital, a sleek black van was waiting for them, specially designed to accomodate the handicapped. In the backseat was a bottle of champagne and a note: My compliments. - MH.

“As brothers go, he’s not too bad,” John commented, nudging Sherlock lightly. All he recieved in answer was a smirk, but it was enough. 

The ride to Baker Street took both forever and hardly any time at all. As they rounded the last corner, John blinked in surprise. A tall black tower stood adjacent to the building, its top connecting to what used to be one of their windows. John looked at Sherlock in confusion.

“Only guesses,” Sherlock said in answer to his unspoken question. “I don’t know for certain, but I’m sure we’ll find out.” 

Lestrade turned around from the front seat. “Nice, isn’t it? Mycroft set it all up. Paid for it, too. Apparently the British government felt they owed you two some favors.” He beamed. “Let’s get you unloaded and then you can check it out.”

A few minutes later - their driver had obviously been well-trained - Sherlock was pushing John down the bumpy sidewalk towards the tower. Lestrade led them around the side to reveal a door, and at last John understood.

“It’s a lift!” John stared up at the shaft, finally appreciating what Mycroft had done. 

“Outside because you couldn’t risk damaging the structure of the building,” Sherlock murmured. “Smart, Mrs. Hudson would murder you, and don’t ask me for help on that one. I assume it’s secured somehow?”

“Of course.” Lestrade grinned. “Did you honestly think we’d let bozos off the street go barging into your bedroom?”

John blushed. “That’s not- I mean, we'll have-”

“How is it secured?” Sherlock asked, saving John from stuttering.

“Voice recognition and thumbprint,” Lestrade informed them. “I thought we'd better have both. God only knows what enemies you two might still have, and it does attract attention.”

“And I'm sure Mycroft was delighted to pay for it,” Sherlock added dryly.

“Well, you wouldn't take a knighthood. Here.” The police inspector guided them over to a small panel set into the side of the elevator shaft, set low enough that John could reach it easily. “Reinforced glass. Shouldn't have any problems with vandals.”

John nodded. “Good to know. So what do we do?”

“Just say your name into the speaker there,” Lestrade instructed him, keying in a series of numbers on the screen with the ease of long practice. “It'll recognize it from there.”

“Er, alright.” Sherlock wheeled him over and he said his name clearly, if somewhat awkwardly, into the speaker. When Sherlock had done the same, Lestrade keyed in another series of numbers.

“If it ever needs recalibrating, just let me know,” he told them, showing them how to scan their fingerprints. 

“Recalibrating?” John asked, frowning. “Why would it need recalibrating?”

Lestrade shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking anywhere but at John. “Well, if you ever, you know, change your name or something.”

“Why would we-” 

“Finger here, please.” Once both men had entered their fingerprints, the doors slid open.

“One way glass,” Sherlock commented as they entered, looking out at the street through the unexpectedly translucent walls. “Very nice.”

“Always good to know what's around you,” Lestrade said. “And we couldn't remember whether you were claustrophobic,” he admitted to John with a shrug. “Figured we'd better not take the chance.”

Only moments later, they'd arrived at the second floor. The doors slid silently open to reveal the living room of 221b, exactly as they'd left it. Except for one thing.

“Welcome home, brother dear,” Mycroft said, folding up his newspaper and rising from the armchair. “And John. Gregory said you'd be in today, and I just had to drop in.”

“Didn't know you cared,” Sherlock replied crisply, pushing John into the flat. 

“Ah, come now, Sherlock.” Mycroft's smile was brittle and forced, but then, it always was. “Don't pretend you aren't at least a bit pleased to see me.”

“Thanks for the lift, it's great,” John said, hoping to break the tension. But Sherlock was having none of it.

“Yes, it was so kind of you to throw some of England's fortune our way. Very personal.”

“Now really, I think at least a bit of gratitude is in order. After all, I did make it possible for you to continue in with your…” He paused. “Companion.”

“Sherlock, leave it,” John told him sharply, taking his hand. Sherlock looked down at him, ready with a sharp retort, but his face softened and he subsided with a sigh.

“Let him alone, Mike,” Lestrade added. “They've had a long week.”

Mycroft sniffed. “I’ll be off, then,” he said crisply, recovering his dignity. “Things to attend to. I’ll show myself out,” he said with a forced smile as Sherlock moved towards the door. 

“I might as well go too,” the police inspector said, nodding at the pair. “Let you two… settle in.” He winked, then headed down the stairs after Mycroft. 

Suddenly left alone, John wasn’t sure where to look. The flat was just as he’d left it, but his perspective was wildly different. We’re going to have to rearrange some things, he thought. I’m not going to fit through.

He started to wheel himself towards the armchairs. “No, I can do it,” he told Sherlock, who had moved to help him. “Got to learn to do it some time.” He smiled up at his - yes, his boyfriend, he could say it - and rolled over towards their armchairs. Only then did he realize yet another problem - he wouldn’t be able to get in.

But Sherlock was already at his side, ready to help. John was grateful, but hated needing it, hated relying on anyone. Although, he reflected, if he must be leaning on someone, let it be the man beside him. And he loved Sherlock for refusing to give him the chance to ask for help: doing all he could to spare his pride. 

Moments later, John was settled in his customary spot, feeling almost normal. Sherlock bustled around the flat in silence, checking in on his experiments and books, making sure nothing was disturbed. “Ah,” he said suddenly from the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson brought tea.”

He reappeared from behind John, carrying two teacups, and handed him one before collapsing into his own armchair. “Good to be home, isn’t it?”

“Very.” John sipped his tea appreciatively. “You could have come back any time, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed, “but it’s not home when you’re away.” John blushed and looked down into his tea, still not entirely sure how to deal with this changed dynamic, though he was certain he was enjoying it.

“John.”

“Yes?” He glanced up - then sat down his cup at the look on Sherlock’s face. “What?” He saw the other man’s eyes flick to the empty wheelchair, and his stomach plummeted. 

“I- There's something I need to ask you.”

John had never seen Sherlock this anxious, this uncomfortable, this out of his depth. 

“I probably should have done it sooner, or later, or something, but I wanted it to be perfect. Want it to be perfect,” he corrected himself. “But…”

“But what?” asked John, well and truly nervous now. 

Sherlock shifted in his chair. “Recent events reminded me that I might not have time to be perfect. And I’m not sure I know what perfect looks like. But that's more realistic, in any case. And I've got close enough to perfect for me.”

“Okay, spit it out, my nerves can't take it,” John ordered him, only half joking. The detective cracked a smile.

“And you spent time in Afghanistan.” He chuckled briefly, then returned to the serious matter at hand - whatever it was.

“John, I haven’t got any right to ask it, but…” He cleared his throat. “Will you marry me?”

John blinked in astonishment, all words flying right out of his mind. “Will… what?”

Instantly, Sherlock's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. “I- Never mind, I just thought-”

“No, no, wait.” John reached out a hand as if to pull the words back. “I just… Really?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Sherlock nodded. “If you want.”

“If I want.” He chuckled wryly. “Sherlock…” He shook his head. “No. I'm sorry, but no.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a long moment. “Okay,” he said at last, unaware that his voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. “Okay.”

“I mean-” John rubbed his eyes, trying to explain. “I can't do that to you, Sherlock. We both know I can't stay here, not like this.” He gestured to his limp legs. “And running around, solving crimes, being Sherlock Holmes…” He shook his head. “Everything has changed, I'm not going to pretend otherwise.”

“Neither am I, John.” Sherlock's eyes were intent on John's face, giving the army doctor the distinct feeling that Sherlock was referring to other changes entirely.

“It's not that I don't love you, Sherlock,” John assured him quickly. “Don't ever think that. It's just…” He sucked in a breath, looking anywhere but at the man across from him. “This last week has honestly been one of the best of my life, and I think we both know why.”

Sherlock nodded, his expression unreadable.

“But I've been deluding myself, thinking that this-” He waved a hand around, encompassing the flat, his wheelchair, and Sherlock. “-could go on.” With a massive amount of self-control, John kept his speech deliberate. “I am a flawed man, Sherlock, and you need something better than that.”

John fell silent, biting his lip, waiting for what his love would say. The flat was quiet for what felt like the longest moment of both of their lives. 

“A physically flawed man and an emotionally flawed man,” Sherlock said quietly, not quite looking at John. “I'd say you're better than I deserve.”

John's eyes widened hopefully as Sherlock's gaze flicked up to meet his. 

“John, if you think I'm not fully aware of exactly what this entails, then you are deluding yourself far more than you think.” His voice was deceptively calm. “And it doesn't change a thing.”

John nodded. He'd known, of course, that Sherlock certainly had thought through what his disability would mean for their lifestyles: God knows we had enough time to worry it over. But he'd felt honour-bound to remind him. He knew he should still refuse.

“You are the one who had saved me, so many more times than you know. Every day, little things and big, sometimes before I know I need saving. Before I met you, I-" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. “My life wasn't of much worth to me.” With a wry smile, he added, “Maybe you've noticed.”

Memories rolled in: Sherlock chasing armed criminals across London, Sherlock toying with England's best criminals for sport. Sherlock vaulting blind over a dumpster to confront the gunman who'd put them in this fix. “A bit, yeah.”

“You changed all of that for me. You're the best thing that ever could have happened to me, John.” He paused, cleared his throat. “A week ago I almost had that taken away. I'm never letting go of you again.”

Sherlock reached for his hand, and before John knew it, he was down on one knee. “I'll ask you again, John. One more time. Will you marry me?”

It would be so easy, John knew. He really shouldn't, really should deal with this problem himself. But here was Sherlock, offering to take away some of that burden. John never could resist those eyes.

“John?” Sherlock frowned. “John, you're crying. Did I do it wrong?”

“No.” John shook his head, laughing through his tears. “No, of course not. Of course I'll marry you.” He beamed up at him. “How's that for perfect?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock told him, and kissed his fiance with the knowledge that whatever happened, he had everything he needed.

8: Not Over

John drifted slowly into wakefulness. He rubbed his eyes, still bleary. A moment later, he realized what had woken him: someone was knocking at the door. 

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “Sherlock, Greg's here.”

The pile of blankets next to him groaned. “Who?”

John rolled his eyes, smiling tolerantly. “He's here to pick me up, remember, love? Today's the day.” He glanced over at their shared closet and felt a thrill go through him at the sight of two identical, freshly-pressed suits hanging inside. 

“The day. The definite article.” Sherlock rolled over, one arm draped over his forehead, eyes closed. “As in, the most important day. The day of days.” His eyes popped open as his still-sleeping brain made the connection. “Right. The day.”

“I'm getting up, Sherlock.” Awkwardly, John used his elbows to prop himself into a sitting position. Living life without legs was getting easier, but it was still a struggle. 

Immediately, Sherlock was up, rolling out of the blankets to help John into his wheelchair. John pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then wheeled himself out of the bedroom.

Lestrade was waiting at the door. “Morning, John. Hope I didn't wake you.”

“You did, actually, but we needed to get up anyway. Come in.” He backed up, giving his friend room to enter the flat. 

“You eaten yet?” Lestrade asked, glancing around the darkened room.

“Not yet. I'm not sure Sherlock's even properly out of bed.”

“That's fine. You can eat on the way. We should get going.”

“Now?” John looked down at his pajama-clad legs. “Bit early, isn't it?”

“Mrs. Hudson's been having kittens since last night, worrying you won't make it there on time. Humor her. Please,” the detective added, a note of pleading in his voice. “She's been planning this for months.”

John snorted. “Years, more like. She'd just never admit it.”

“Yeah, well, she's optimistic. Morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded a hello. “Graham.” He held out John's suit, still in its garment bag. 

Lestrade took the bag, ignoring Sherlock's comment. “I think your brother's coming by in a bit. Can't have you two getting ready together.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked grumpily, slouching into the kitchen to make tea. 

“Wedding tradition, isn't it?” Lestrade said cheerfully. “Groom can't see the bride before the wedding. Or, the other groom, I guess.”

“Let me guess: Mrs. Hudson again?” John said, grinning as he spotted Sherlock's soft blush. 

“Molly, actually. Apparently she knows everything there is to know about weddings.” John was interested to see Lestrade blush slightly as well. “Anyway, we really should go. Come on, John.”

“I'll see you soon, Sherlock,” John promised, smiling at his fiance. Sherlock softened.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Yes, alright, come on,” Lestrade said in mock-disgust, grabbing the handles of John's wheelchair and pushing him towards the lift doors. “Time enough for that later.”

John smiled, allowing his friend to guide him out. Time enough, indeed, he thought. As much time as there is.  
Lestrade's flat was small but neat, the home of a man who was used to a certain level of comfort and having to provide it himself. John was suddenly reminded that Lestrade was one of his few friends who had been married before. 

He wheeled himself up to his friend's kitchen table, unloading the bag with his breakfast in it. “Not too much,” Lestrade had told him. “You'll have butterflies.” He'd ended up with just a hot sandwich.

“Tea?” Lestrade asked now, pouring hot water out of his kettle.

“Please.” John gratefully accepted the mug, appreciating the warmth on his hands. He sipped it appreciatively while Lestrade went to hang up the suit. “What’s it like?” he asked suddenly. “Getting married.”

Lestrade sighed, leaning on the counter edge. “It’s the best day of your life,” he answered honestly, “and you feel a little bit sick, because you know things are changing. You still sort of can’t believe it’s actually happening. And you sort of want it to be done so you can just be married, but you also want to live in that moment forever.” He shook his head, blushing slightly. “It’s hard to describe.”

Pondering that, John leaned back, resettling himself in his chair. The damn wheelchair was the main source of his stress, not only for the day, but for the rest of their lives. 

Both of them were adrenaline junkies, and being tied down like that would limit what they could do. Bored and frustrated Sherlock was difficult to be around as it was. And if John was honest with himself, he knew he was much the same. What if they took it out on each other?

“You’ve still got doubts, haven’t you?” Lestrade asked, eyeing him carefully. “About whether it’s all going to work, about whether you should go through with it.”

John avoided his eye. Ws he really that predictable? “A bit,” he said brusquely. “Not that- not about whether we’re in love, but about the… practicality.” It was hard for him, sometimes, to openly talk about loving Sherlock, and being loved by Sherlock. It had taken so long for him even to admit it to himself.

“That’s good,” Lestrade told him, warm but serious. “It’s not going to be perfect. So don’t expect it to.” He grinned. “But it will be worth it.”

Try as he might, John couldn’t stop a blush. Then he decided not to fight it - it was, after all, his wedding day. 

“Eat quick,” the inspector told him, nodding his approval of John’s growing smile. “If we don't get you into that suit in time, Mrs. Hudson will have my head.”  
Sherlock sighed as the lift doors closed behind them. He'd been waiting for this day for- well, for years, really, but these last hours felt like centuries. 

He was just settled into his armchair with a mug of tea when there came another knock on the door, this one much more delicate and brisk. Inwardly, Sherlock sighed. 

“Come in, Mycroft.”

The door opened and the elder Holmes brother stepped in, umbrella in hand. “Good morning, brother dear.”

“I thought it took a national emergency to get you out of bed this early,” Sherlock muttered, making no attempt to hide his bad temper. 

“Yes, well, so did I.” Mycroft smiled humorlessly. “Apparently you getting married counts.”

Sherlock made a face. “What do you want?”

“I'm here for you,” his brother said, face the picture of sincerity. “To be certain you don't panic and run the other way. I know publicly expressing emotion is unfamiliar for you, Sherlock, and-”

“I’m not afraid of being in public,” Sherlock told him scathingly. Mycroft eyed him.

“It was not the public to which I was referring.”

There was a long pause, neither brother quite willing to make eye contact. “Don't worry,” Sherlock said, getting up at last. “I'm not disappearing this time. Besides, it's not exactly public.”

They had decided that in order to avoid the eye and attention of the press, the ceremony would be small and private, with only a few close friends: Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. 

“Even so,” Mycroft allowed. “You do seem to have a history of, shall we say, fleeing commitment?”

Sherlock’s only answer was to stride over to the flat’s door and hold it open, pointedly looking away from his brother. Mycroft sighed. “Yes, alright. Apologies.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock shut the door, snatching up the suit and disappearing into his bedroom. Mycroft perched stiffly on the black couch, umbrella propped up between his knees. 

“You're following in our parents' footsteps, you know,” he called. “Particularly our mother. She married a bit beneath herself.”

“And just think what would have happened if she'd married a genius,” Sherlock replied through the door. Mycroft smiled faintly, not fooled - his comment had riled his brother. “Lucky for you, you won't have to deal with biological nieces or nephews.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow sardonically. “Lucky?”

“With his brains?” Sherlock smiled to himself, stepping into the neatly pressed trousers. “You’d never stand a chance.”

With a sigh, Mycroft recognized that his brother was probably correct. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

“Not that you’d ever know,” came the tart rejoinder. “How’s life inside the glass case?”

“Goldfish, Sherlock,” he reminded him. “Their minds are nothing. No one can measure up. Why bother? I remain of the opinion that romantic entanglements of any sort are dangerous. We’ve already seen how much of a liability you have been to me.”

“And I suppose you think this wedding is dangerous as well.”

“Do you need to ask? An open ceremony where anyone could find you, and your mental facilities severely inhibited… But-” He held up a hand, anticipating a reaction, “I will say, if you must marry anyone… let it be him. John Watson, despite appearances, is no liability.”

“I will, thanks. And you can watch what you say.”

Mycroft bit back a comment about proving his point. He leaned back cautiously, resisting the urge to reach forward and straighten the stack of newspapers on the coffee table. 

He was an inch away from giving in and grabbing the stack when Sherlock’s bedroom door opened. “Hands off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft snatched his hand back immediately, rearranging his face into innocence. “Sherlock. You’re looking… smart.”

The younger Holmes tugged lightly on the bottom of his suit jacket. It was perfectly tailored, of course - Mycroft had seen to that - and served to emphasize the angles of Sherlock’s body. The overall look was undeniably attractive. “The understatement of the century,” he said dryly.

“Though your left lapel begins four millimeters below the right-”

“Shut up now.” Sherlock shrugged on his long coat. It was winter in London, and the outer layer would hopefully throw off the press. On impulse, he grabbed the deerstalker, yanking it down firmly over his mass of curls. For John.   
When they reached the courthouse, Mrs. Hudson was utterly beside herself. “Sherlock! Mycroft! Oh, thank God you’re here. Have you seen John?” She guided them into a small anteroom and shut the door. This was where Sherlock would wait until the actual ceremony.

“I was under the impression that was bad luck,” Mycroft answered dryly, stepping out of reach as the landlady embraced his brother. 

“Yes, well, I worry,” she fretted, brushing off Sherlock’s tux unnecessarily. “You both should have been here nearly five minutes ago. ‘Late to your own wedding’ is only meant to be an expression, you know,” she reminded them severely. 

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. He could afford some sentiment today. “I’m sure he’s on his way,” he told her. “Haven’t you got something else to be doing?”

“You can’t be rude, it’s your wedding day!” Mrs. Hudson scolded him, but she was smiling. She bustled out of the room, likely to terrorize some poor clerk into rearranging the seating again. 

“I’d best be off as well,” Mycroft said. “Our parents will be here soon. I expect Father is already in tears.” He grimaced. “Do make this quick, Sherlock, I’m meeting with the Prime Minister later.”

“Oh, bugger off.” Sherlock threw himself into a chair as the door shut behind his brother, though he was careful not to wrinkle his suit. 

In just a few minutes, John would be here. Or rather, out there, at the end of an aisle, dressed in a tux with eyes only for him. The prospect was thrilling.

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, determine to get his heart rate under control. He tried to think of numbers and data, something cold and pure, but John’s face kept interrupting his calculations. He stared at the wall clock, focusing on the ticking seconds, reveling in their regularity. And suddenly, numbers be damned: he wanted that clock to spin around instantly until he could be out there with John.

It felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before the faint strains of wedding music began drifting through the closed inner door. It was time. 

Sherlock got to his feet, brushing himself down with care. When the music changed, he pulled open the door, his hands shaking, and stepped out into the aisle. He couldn’t stop a grin from spreading over his face. 

They had elected to have two aisles, one for each of them, coming up either side of the seating. Sherlock couldn’t help it - he glanced over the heads, just to get a glimpse of John wheeling his way down the aisle. He had to look down almost immediately to hide his blush. 

Instead of looking at the crowd - he could already hear sniffling - Sherlock focused on the carpeted aisle, following it intently until he turned and reached the base of the platform. Three steps up and there was John, rolling up the opposite ramp. Blushing furiously, Sherlock took his own seat, putting him at John's eye level but still elevated above the crowd. 

“Friends and family, we are gathered here today…”

John reached out, taking both of Sherlock’s hands in his, and smiled. His thumb began moving in slow circles on Sherlock’s palm, and the world-famous detective found it extremely difficult to concentrate on what was being said. It wasn’t until John let go of him to read his own vows that Sherlock was able to focus. 

“I don’t think anyone here will disagree when I say that you loved me first.” 

Muted chuckles rang through the room. Mrs. Hudson’s laugh was distinctive. 

“But I’m glad you did. You knew from the start, even when I was too proud to admit it. You could always see how good this would be, how good we would be, even when I couldn’t.” 

He spoke simply and directly, but from the heart, in the way he always had. The way that Sherlock found so difficult. Emotions and subjectivity - what was direct about that? But John had a way of making that clear.

“You humble me, Sherlock, in so many ways.” He smiled and shook his head slightly. “You probably know that. I mean, God, you’re brilliant. The first time we met, you knew everything about me.”

Not everything, John. I had no idea how wonderful you are. 

“For a long time, I thought I had emotions on you. That at least there, I had you beat.” He took Sherlock’s hand again, as if unable to help himself. “Now I know that’s not true. I don’t know how you kept sane all those years watching me go on all those stupid dates, but… I’m beyond glad you did.” 

He set down his paper and taking Sherlock’s other hand. He slipped a simple golden band onto the left ring finger, saying the traditional line. “With this ring, I thee wed.” A smile. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He didn’t realize he was staring, dead-eyed and frozen, slightly in shock. This must be what he was like when making deductions. Usually his mind was going faster than his mouth could keep up. Today, however… well. He wasn’t sure words could express what was going on in his mind.

“Sherlock?” Oh. His turn.

“Er… Yes, sorry.” For a heartstopping moment, he felt the eyes of the crowd on him with tearful and affectionate anticipation, and began to reach for the folded bit of paper tucked in his breast pocket, but a deep breath calmed him. He didn’t need prewritten speeches. This was John. 

“John.” That was a safe place to start. “My… friend.” Titters from the audience. No. That wasn’t right. “My love.” No. Well, yes. “My… John. I don’t have the right words. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry.” Another long silence. “Anyway.”

Alright. The notes, then. He cleared his throat. “Marriage doesn’t change anything. It is a piece of paper and a band of socially valued metal that people pay thousands of pounds to have people cry over.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Lestrade put his head in his hands. John just squeezed his hands a little tighter. “And this doesn’t change anything, John. Not this-” He gestured to the room, the ceremony, “and not that.” A nod towards John’s wheelchair. “This is a promise - a vow - that I’ll never leave, not for any reason. Whatever comes, we face it together.”

His fiancé - his almost-husband - smiled a little wider. 

“John,” Sherlock said, “you are willing to love a man who is by all accounts unlovable, and for that, you have my eternal gratitude and devotion. You saved me, John Hamish Watson.”

John groaned slightly, rolling his eyes, but his grin was tolerant. He'd refused to have his full name on the invitations, but he should have known Sherlock wouldn't give in so easily.

“You saved me,” Sherlock repeated earnestly. “I love you, all of you. And I will never leave your side.” He blinked. Tears? Well, let them come. Today was well worth some tears. Long fingers trembling slightly, he reached for the matching gold band and slid it onto John’s waiting finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

The officiant smiled. “I now invite you to seal your vows with a kiss, and in so doing, become partners in life, for life.”

Even as John’s lips met his, Sherlock couldn’t stop a triumphant grin. After far too long, they were married. Married. The kiss was soft, sweet, and far too short, but a hint of extra pressure, just before John pulled away, hinted at more to come later. At the applause of the crowd, the newlyweds turned down the aisle, ready to greet the wellwishers and begin a new life.  
The next morning, with the party over, the guests gone home, and the night spent, John and Sherlock sat comfortably in their armchairs, going through cards from well-wishers. It was a lazy morning, one where neither newlywed had any pressing need to go anywhere, do anything, except be in one another's company. 

Sherlock sifted through the pile, looking for anything of actual interest. His long fingers landed on not a card, but a hastily scrawled note, written on the back of a receipt. It was folded as though it had once been tucked in a card.

John looked up, curious. “What's that?”

“It's from your sister.” Sherlock scanned through it quickly.

“Harriet?” John leaned forward, curiosity now mingled with confusion. “Didn't we read her card at the dinner?”

“Mmhmm.” Sherlock smoothed it out as best he could and read: 

Dear John,

Congrats to you and Sherlock! Sorry I couldn't be there, but you have my love. Hopefully this lasts longer than Clara and I did. You always were the more responsible sibling, though, so I wouldn't worry.

Got a favor to ask, though. Kind of a big one. Let's just say that there's a reason I haven't been to visit in ages. Long story short, you've got a niece, and I can't keep her. I know it's a lot, but is there any way you could take her, at least for a while? It's not like you can have your own Please let me know ASAP.

Love you, Harry

P.S: Her name's Rosie


End file.
